Just Like Flying
by The-Ones-Who-Ran
Summary: "Falling is just like flying, except with a more permanent destination in mind." An odd ringing echoed in his skull and the city street swam around him, the world tilting as he fought against his muddled brain, everything blurred by the tears still caught in his eyes. Of all things, he hadn't thought the worst part would be keeping still. Sherlock's POV of the Fall


It took all his strength not to cry out. To scream as his body crashed into the pavement. To moan and bellow as he felt the bones in his legs breaking – he knew his ankles must be shattered from the impact – followed by the feeling of several ribs cracking as his chest his next.

Unable to stop himself, he felt his head fall, at last, onto the hard ground. An odd ringing echoed in his skull, and the city street swam around him, the world tilting as he fought against his muddled brain, everything blurred by the tears still caught in his eyes.

Of all things, he hadn't thought the worst part would be _keeping still_.

He felt his stomach clench, trying to rid itself of contents it didn't possess (he hadn't eaten so much as a biscuit in days), and he allowed himself one small swallow to keep down the bile. Only seconds ago had found his stomach in his throat as he fell through the air, now it felt sore (as did everything else, for that matter) after slamming hard against his broken ribcage.

The sensation to _do _something was overwhelming. He fought back the urge to curl up into himself, clutch at his stomach in an attempt to hold the jagged pieces of himself together. He wanted to wince, clench his jaw, grit his teeth, use every swear word he'd picked up from his brother and John alike. It went against everything he knew, this sudden, strange need to show pain. He'd normally fight to hide it, to discourage people's useless _coddling_.

This was different, though. The rare presence of _sentiment_ making itself known in the strange aching in his chest that had nothing to do with his battered organs. It was in that horrible, painful feeling that had torn itself through his chest like a bullet upon hearing his name shouted up at him from below, desperate and begging. Disbelieving.

Breaking.

"Sherlock!" John had yelled – _screamed_ – as Sherlock felt himself fall forward, his empty stomach creeping up his throat, fighting against the overpowering urge to pinwheel his arms wildly in a frantic effort to regain his balance.

He'd let himself fall, his heart seeming to skip a few beats as he felt the absence of ground beneath his feet. It felt so horribly wrong.

Falling felt wrong, too.

It felt heart-achingly wrong when he didn't hit the pavement instantly, like when he'd fallen off his bike as a child, scraping his knee on the driveway, screaming for Mycroft's aid.

When it didn't end the instant after that, like when he'd fallen out of that huge tree on the edge of the grounds where he grew up. He'd been looking for bugs to examine when the rough bark was ripped away from the trunk by his nimble fingers on his way down to earth.

When it didn't end a moment later, like when he'd taken that ungraceful plunge off the high diving board at school after Victor had pushed him. The pair of them laughed when Sherlock emerged from the pool, frowning behind his fringe of sopping wet curls, coughing up chlorinated water and breathless chuckles at the sight of Victor's triumphant smirk.

He just kept falling.

It gave him plenty of time to think, for which he was grateful. His veins sang with adrenaline, his heart beating an irregular tattoo in his ears, pulsing at the back of his head as he tried to focus on angling his body. Tiny details that could been the difference between life and death.

_Hit feet first, make sure your head hits last._

_Break your fall with your limbs. Work to protect essential organs._

_Try and keep horizontal, spreading out your limbs to take up as much space as possible. More wind resistance, slows fall down by a small fraction. _

_Let your coat billow out. Yes, that's it!_

No matter how confident in his survival, in his knowledge that he would live on, it wasn't a comfort as the pavement below grew closer. He had no delusions about the pain that would follow, he knew it was going to hurt far worse than anything he'd ever experienced, but he'd long passed the point of no return.

Oh, how it _burned! _How his whole body screamed in pain. His bones were crushed underneath his weight, skin searing as blood and muscle greeted the open air as its protective barrier was torn away, mind letting out a choked cry as it drowned in a cocktail of agony and emotion, his genius trickling out onto the pavement, much like his blood.

He ached to show signs of life as he heard rapid footsteps approaching, the shoes of strangers pounding against the pavement, the ground vibrating ever-so-slightly against Sherlock's bloody cheek. Hurried voices, cries for aid, even a few comforting murmurs (comforting him, or a nearby old lady who'd probably had the fright of her life, he didn't care to know). He strained his ears, his foggy brain trying to sift through the buzz of noise to find a familiar sound besides the ever-present hum of London and the bustle of its people.

_Let him be alright_, his muddled brain begged, all of its barriers and objections to normal human emotions having been spilt across the pavement. His internal voice sounded pathetic – scared and worried – even to himself.

_If Mycroft could see me now_, he thought bitterly as another wave of pain shot through his body. It was miracle he hadn't fallen unconscious but, then again, he never could get his bloody brain to turn itself off, even as utterly wrecked as it was now.

Sherlock frantically swallowed back a whimper, trying to mask his sudden intake of breath, as unfamiliar hands poked and prodded at him, assessing damage. Fire and electricity fought against each other as his body seared and he felt his nerves spasm and sting, needles all over.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," a familiar voice, muttering in utter disbelief and wavering uncharacteristically, reached his ears as if it'd been shouted over the commotion around him. Steady footsteps hit the pavement in a familiar, comforting beat as John approached.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through," John pressed, his voice still weak and brittle in comparison to his usual certain and solid tone. The difference made Sherlock feel strangely unsettled "Let me come through, please." Sherlock could hear fabric rustling and muffled grunts of surprise as John pushed his way towards where he lay, his voice growing in volume, cracking with the strain of emotion.

"No, he's my friend!" John insisted when all else failed, the meaning behind that last word making his situation clear to the gathering crowd, those tiny signs of distress only obvious to Sherlock before then. The crowd reluctantly parted as John staggered forward (was he hurt? Why was he stumbling?), continuing to speak in broken mutters. "He's my friend. Please."

Under much different circumstances, Sherlock would've smiled at this title, finally falling from John's lips, without hesitation, for all the world to hear. _Friends protect people_. John's earlier words echoed dully in his bruised and blurry brain. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock was finally deserving of the title. _Fancy that,_ he thought, though it was – oddly and annoyingly – in Mycroft's sneering tone. _Sherlock Holmes is capable of friendship._

Familiar hands, rough and calloused, fumbled at the pulse point at his wrist (Oh God, John's hands were shaking. Why were they shaking?), but the hum of his pulse was absent, the rubber ball tucked tightly under his arm made sure of that. His entire arm was numb (a blessing, that. At least a tiny part of his body was exempt from the pain), and Sherlock could barely hear the whisper of feeling in the crook of his arm over the screaming agony of the rest of his body drowning it out, over the whimpered complaints of his spinning mind, swirling swiftly out of control.

John's fingers continued to tremble against the inside of his numbed wrist, and Sherlock's own digits itched to encircle his friend's, to hold him there. To have John's pulse sing against his fingers like they had when they'd gone on the run what seemed like ages ago, handcuffed together as they escaped into the shadows of London. He forced himself to lie limp, even as John's hand was torn away roughly, Sherlock's arm falling slack onto the pavement.

"Please, let me just –" John resisted, pleading as Sherlock heard him being pulled back by paramedics, fighting weakly against their grip. His words were cut off abruptly as Sherlock heard John's knees strike the ground as his body gave out, creaking with the effort of keeping him from lying completely across his friend, as if to shield him from further harm.

Sherlock swallowed back a groan as he felt himself being turned over by steady, professional hands as they rolled him onto his back. He fought to keep his eyes unfocused (it wasn't hard, they still swam with tears), as he stared blankly up at the building he'd just fallen from.

"Jesus, no," John's groan stirred a painful clenching in his gut, but Sherlock kept his expression smooth, slack even when arms snuck underneath him, lifting him up. He could hear John attempt to stand, trying to reach out a hand in aid, only to have his body slump back against the pavement with a muted thud. "God, no."

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his wince as the paramedics lowered him gently onto the stretcher. The crowd doesn't notice, their attention refocused on John in an attempt to keep him from collapsing into the puddle of his friend's blood. The paramedics were under no illusion, anyway, and Sherlock privately and silently thanked Molly for her help as he felt himself being wheeled away.

He wanted desperately to reach out for John as the paramedics rounded the corner and raced him into the hospital. He wanted John beside him, clutching at his hand as he tries to keep pace alongside the stretcher. Sherlock felt himself suddenly ache for all the physical contact he'd been too proud ask for before, too unfamiliar with the social rules and boundaries John insisted he live by, just like everyone else. It suddenly occurred to him, belatedly, that he had never even hugged John (friends hugged, didn't they? Sherlock wasn't sure), not even after the many dozens of times the both of them had nearly lost their lives. Even if he knew his body would groan and protest, a friendly embrace seemed appropriate now, a small assurance that he was fine, and that he wasn't going anywhere. John's strong, sure grip holding his broken shards together. John's pulse beneath his broken fingers, assuring him that he was alive, that he had succeeded in saving his best friend.

Any further thoughts of all that Sherlock had failed to do and to say were suddenly quieted, as he felt brain slow to a crawl, his thoughts pushing through the haze sluggishly. _Odd_, he wondered fuzzily, thinking suddenly becoming too much of a chore. He hadn't even felt the injection.

He let himself sigh in relief, now safe in the hospital (though where, exactly, was impossible to discern right now), as he felt his broken body sink into the familiar, drugged haze that had shrouded a great deal of his youth. The blurred reality welcomed him back like an old friend, the darkness creeping at the edge of his vision strangely comforting.

As he felt himself slipping, his brilliant mind reaching near-complete quiet, he had one last, dulled pang of worry for his best friend, abandoned on the pavement outside. He fought against the stupor weakly for a brief moment, before falling, defeated, back into its warm embrace.

_I'm sorry, John_ was his final thought before he faded into darkness. _Forgive me._


End file.
